


through the woods we ran

by stevenstamkos



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fae & Fairies, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13162023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevenstamkos/pseuds/stevenstamkos
Summary: “Tell me about your faeries.”Nico does not want to talk about faeries, not in the comfort of his bed with Nolan stretched out next to him, but he knows that Nolan is only trying to learn as much as he can about Nico. Nolan has asked him about everything, his likes and dislikes, his home in Naters and his family, his history. And now his faeries.(They’re not reallyhis, Nico knows. Not in any sense of the word. The thought is kind of terrifying, actually. But Nolan is waiting patiently, eyes intent on Nico’s face, and Nico thinks he would lay claim to every monster in the world for this boy.)





	through the woods we ran

**Author's Note:**

> Quick first things first, I changed my AO3 username from ConfusedPumpkin to stevenstamkos. Sorry for any confusion!
> 
> Further warnings (spoilers!) at the end, concerning memory, if that's something that you might be concerned about
> 
> Title from "From Eden" by Hozier

Nico meets the love of his life on a Wednesday. It is raining in Toronto, and Nolan Patrick is just a boy, a tall boy with pale eyes and pink cheeks, nearly indistinguishable among the twenty other Canadian players. He is even dressed like his teammates, black shorts and red shirt and the maple leaf on his chest.

Nolan Patrick is standing off to the side, face cool and closed off, and he is in Nico’s way.

Nico says, “Excuse me,” politely.

Nolan Patrick says, “Oh, sorry,” and shuffles back toward his teammates.

Nico says, “Thanks.” And then he pauses, and he says with sincerity, “See you in a few days. Good luck.”

Nolan Patrick looks surprised, but he says, “Thanks, you too,” and for the first time, he smiles.

It is a very nice smile. Nico’s shoulder brushes against Nolan Patrick’s arm as he walks past, and Nolan Patrick smells like teenage boy cologne and a bit of sweat and very faintly underneath it all, incongruous, he smells like grass in the rain.

When Switzerland plays against Canada during the exhibition pre-tournament games, there is no Nolan Patrick on the ice.

Too injured, the reports say. What a pity to be injured so often during his draft year, such a promising young prospect, and to be sidelined during World Juniors due to lingering sports hernia. What terrible luck.

That is of no concern to Nico. He plays hockey and sleeps well, and he dreams about honeysuckle growing under the sun.

 

 

Nico is five years old when he sees his first faerie.

He is standing on the edge of a field, thick forest in front of him, and there is a boy staring back at him from the dusky shade of the trees. The boy has pointed ears and pointed teeth and red eyes that do not blink. The air smells strong and sweet, like flowers.

Nico is five and does not remember the warnings. He only sees another boy, violently inhuman but a boy, a friend.

He holds out his box of raisins in offering, and the boy leans forward, reaching a hand out of the shadows and into the sun—

The world lurches suddenly when his father picks him up, and there is yelling and commotion and the frantic cries of his mother, and Nina’s and Luca’s voices joined in the confusion, and when Nico looks back at the forest, the boy is gone.

 

“You mustn’t ever tell a faerie about you,” his mother tells him.

Nico watches as she sets out her offerings, curious eyes tracking the steaming mugs left on the windowsill. He stands on a chair and watches the steam rise from the white surface, the smell of warm milk and honey.

“Why not, Mami?” he asks.

She lifts his fingers away from the mugs, careful not to spill any of the contents. Nico frowns. He is the baby of the family, but he is old enough to know not to touch the offerings.

“Faeries are powerful, and their rules aren’t like human rules,” his mother explains. “Be polite and respectful and keep your distance. If you tell them your name, they will take your soul. If you tell them your story, you will forget who you are. These are taken as payment for their services.” She leaves the window closed and latched tight, the grassy hills outside and mountains in the distance, in the dark.

Nico blinks and listens intently as his mother gives him a laundry list of faerie dos and don’ts. There are a lot of rules.

“Don’t ask a faerie for help,” she says. “There is nothing more dangerous.”

In the morning, there are wild honeysuckle flowers on the windowsill, and the mugs are empty.

 

When Nico is twelve years old, he gets his first and only Blessing.

It is dangerous, he knows. He tosses and turns at night for months, working up the courage, and then he goes downstairs and pours milk into a pan, heating it on the stove. There are the usual mugs his mother left, growing cool on the windowsill in the kitchen, and he stares at them as he waits for the milk to boil. He stirs in honey and—struck by sudden inspiration, he opens the cupboards and looks around until he finds vanilla and cinnamon, adding a tiny bit of each to the milk as well. First impressions are first impressions.

Carefully, he carries the mug of milk to his bedroom and leaves it on the windowsill.

He does this for a month, and then on the thirtieth day, he leaves the milk on his window and sneaks outside when his parents are asleep. It is best to find a faerie in the forest, and there is one right on the edge of the city where Nico lives, high in the mountains, so he bikes there in silence.

It’s not hard to find a faerie. They know when they’re wanted.

The faerie stares at Nico with dark, shiny eyes, and it smiles. Its teeth are very sharp.

“I want to play hockey,” Nico says. “I want to play in the NHL.”

“What’s your name?” the faerie asks.

Nico hesitates. He can’t give a false name, but he can’t give his true name either. He settles on, “Nico,” and hopes that it is enough.

The faerie’s mouth twists with dissatisfaction, but it accepts it. “You have left me good offerings, and your family is kind, Nico. I can give you what you want—for a price, of course. You want to play hockey in the NHL.”

“I want a _long_ career in the NHL, and I want to be good.” He bites his lip, trying to think of any more loopholes the faerie might exploit. It would be cheating to ask the faerie to help him _win_. He wouldn’t go that far. He can’t think of anything else.

“I will give you all that,” the faerie says. “And for a price: a lock of your hair.”

Nico lets out a little breath. A lock of hair isn’t awful, but it’s a very small price to pay. There must be something more, something bigger that the faerie wants from him.

“And tell me a story.”

A _story_. “No,” Nico says, fighting to keep his voice polite, to keep the fear from bleeding through. There are so many rules to remember. His heart is in his throat as he tries to think of how to reject this payment without offending the faerie. “I don’t—I don’t have a story.”

“Everyone has many stories. Tell me a story. A mother, a father, a friend, a grandparent.”

The smell of honeysuckle is so strong in the air, he can taste it in the back of his mouth, like sticky-sweet nectar.

“What about a skill? What if I give you something like that?”

There is silence for a moment, and Nico is afraid that it is an offended silence. But when the faerie speaks, it only sounds curious. “What skills do you have that I could want?”

“I’m really good at football. I was going to play football before I decided to focus on—” He shuts his mouth when he realizes how close to danger he is stepping. He must tell the faerie as little about himself as possible. “I could give you my ability to play football.”

Nico has played football for years, and it hurts to give that up. The faerie must see that, because it accepts. He gives it a lock of hair and his football skill for a guaranteed shot at the NHL. It is a steep price, but it could’ve been worse.

 

“Faeries love stories,” his mother reminds him.

“I know,” Nico says. He is staring out the window, watching the greenery flash past as the car speeds from Naters to Visp.

“You can’t tell them a story, or they’ll steal it from you.”

“I know that, Mami.”

He must sound impatient, because his mother says, a little sharp, “Nico, there were flowers on your bedroom window.”

And there were, blooms of wild honeysuckle on his sill, filling the room with their sweet scent.

“I just left some cream out, like you do. Just an offering.”

“I do that in the _kitchen_. You don’t want their attention, Nico. Just enough milk and honey to appease them, to make sure they leave us alone, left in the kitchen by an adult. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

Nico’s eyes drop to his skate bag at his feet. His mother doesn’t know about him being Blessed. He won’t ever tell her about it.

“I won’t, Mami, don’t worry,” he says, softer this time, and his mother takes her eyes off the road for a second to smile at him, covering his hand with one of her own.

He won’t go looking for the faeries again, remembering the fear and adrenaline that rushed through him when he’d been getting the faerie’s Blessing. It’s far too risky and far too dangerous. The price only gets higher as he gets older, as his dreams get bigger. No more wishes, Nico promises himself.

As spring turns to summer and his friends all get together to play football, Nico spends every day at the rink in Visp instead. He tells everyone it’s because he’s focusing on hockey now, chasing his NHL dream.

 

 

In Halifax, Nico leaves a little dish of milk and honey on the kitchen window of his billet home, and he wakes up to the familiar, slightly out-of-place smell of honeysuckle in the morning. The smell clings to him until he gets to the rink and changes into his Mooseheads gear.

He is projected to go in the first round in June, 16th overall. It is only the start of the season.

 

The night before his eighteenth birthday, he is in Toronto, at the World Juniors. Switzerland was knocked out by the Americans the day before, but they are sticking around for the end of the tournament, watching the Canadians and Americans and Swedes and Russians play amazing hockey.

Nico rips open a packet of sunflower seeds and pours the seeds onto the windowsill of his hotel room, next to his customary mug of milk. He is using half-and-half this time, looted from the hotel fridge and warmed in the hotel-provided microwave.

The mug was full this morning, his offering of half-and-half untouched. But he is used to leaving the offerings out, and while it might be hard for faeries to find him in Toronto, there’s really no harm in being polite.

He arranges the seeds into a pile and thinks, suddenly, about Nolan Patrick and the scent of rain and grass on his Team Canada shirt.

No one in Toronto has seen Nolan Patrick since the start of the tournament, when the Canadians sent him home once it became obvious that he wouldn’t be cleared to play. Canada has done fine without him, well on their way to the semifinals against Sweden.

Nico shrugs off thoughts of Patrick and turns off the light.

When he wakes up, the milk and seeds are gone, and the smell of honeysuckle is strong in his nose. The only thing on the windowsill is the empty mug with _Hilton_ stamped on the side.

“Morning. Happy birthday, Hisch,” his roommate says from half-underneath his covers. And then he pokes his head out properly and squints at him. “What’d you put in your hair last night? Looks like you went out and got wild.”

Nico reaches up and feels petals under his fingers, woven into his hair like a crown.

 

Nolan Patrick is not too injured for the Top Prospects Game. His smile is warm, his hands are soft, and his cheeks are very, very pink.

He is wearing a jersey with a crown on it and a stalk of wheat. Wheat Kings.

Nico is wearing his Mooseheads jersey, ranked second overall, and he can’t stop staring at Nolan Patrick.

“Take a picture, Hisch, it’ll last longer,” Kailer Yamamoto tells him cheerfully, and Nico tears his eyes away.

“He’s just checking out the feathers on Patty,” Stelio Mattheos grins. “Patty thinks he’s got the best hair in the Dub, drives Kaspy crazy. What do you think, Hisch?”

“Sure,” Nico says agreeably. Nolan Patrick _does_ have nice hair.

They don’t talk much until the night before the game itself, when Nico finds Patrick hiding behind a potted plant on their floor of the hotel.

“Oh, hi,” he says, a little startled.

Patrick looks up from his phone. He is curled into the space between the huge plant and the wall, a bit of an uncomfortable fit considering his 6’3” frame. There’s barely any breathing room back there.

“Hey, what’s up,” Patrick says.

“I was going back to my room.” A curious pause. “Are you hiding?”

Patrick shuffles around a little until Nico can see the wall outlet next to him, phone plugged in to charge. “I’ve been kicked out of my room,” he explains. “Glasser’s getting laid, and I don’t know where else to go. Did you know that Yam Fry is _really_ loud?”

They share a laugh over the uncomfortable situation, and then Nico says, “Um, you want to come to my room…?”

“Hisch, wow. You move fast,” Patrick says, grinning up at him, and Nico can feel himself flushing. Seeing Patrick smile at him, chin tilted up and eyes laughing, saying things like that, like they could be hooking up right now—It makes Nico feel a bit unsteady and warm.

“Well, you can use my room to charge,” he offers. “I’m not going to sleep yet.”

For a second, he thinks Nolan Patrick is going to turn him down, which is a weirdly disappointing thought, and then Patrick says, “Sure thing, Hisch,” and reaches around himself to unplug his charger from the wall. Nico politely doesn’t watch as Patrick fights himself out of his tight spot and gets upright. He’s got a few inches on Nico and a few pounds, and Nico has to tip his head up a bit to look at him.

“I’m in this hall,” he says, and he leads them toward his room.

They walk down the hallway in silence for a few moments before Nolan Patrick says suddenly, “Can I ask you a question?”

Nico hums, listening.

It takes a few moments for him to find the words, and as he thinks, Nico reaches into his pocket for his keycard. When they’re at Nico’s door, Patrick finally says, “Do you ever think about what’s gonna happen at the draft? Like, just—everything that’s gonna happen leading up to the draft. You think about that all the time, Hisch?”

It comes out rushed, slightly anxious, and Nico knows that this is Nolan Patrick, bared to the bone, exposing his heart to him. So there _are_ emotions underneath his cool exterior: fears and circling thoughts, the same thoughts that run through Nico’s head. It’s honest and sobering and Nico feels touched, and a whole lot closer to him.

He slips the keycard into the slot, watching the light turn green and turning the knob. “Yeah,” he says, opening the door. “And call me Nico.”

 

Nolan falls asleep in Nico’s bed, phone fully charged on the nightstand, forgotten in the excitement of their conversation.

Nico sets his full mug on the window, unplugs Nolan’s phone from the wall outlet, and turns off the lamp. He gets into the other side of the bed.

He makes sure to wake up early the next morning, to clear away the empty mug and the flowers before Nolan can wake to find them and wonder where they came from. In the next bed, Maxime Comtois is sleeping heavily.

It’s not until he’s returning to his bed that Nico sees it: a small spray of honeysuckle tucked behind Nolan’s ear, oddly possessive.

Nico pulls the flowers out of Nolan’s hair, hands shaking, but he can’t get the smell of honeysuckle out of the bed.

 

Things feel more steady in Halifax. The plane ride from Quebec City is quiet, and Nico sleeps through it and wakes up to the familiar sight of the harbor, nothing but the reassuring smell of sea salt clearing his head.

There is a snap waiting for him on his phone when he turns it back on.

In it, Nolan is smiling in the Quebec City airport as he waits for the plane that’ll take him back to Brandon. He is pale and amused and there is a colorful array of flowers on his head. They are daisies mostly, round pink and white blooms. It’s only a filter of course, but it makes Nico smile.

He thinks about the flower crown that he has in his nightstand, the delicate dried honeysuckle blooms woven together with faerie fingers.

He sends back a snap of himself with the dog filter.

 

 

Nico is warming milk in the kitchen, phone propped on the counter as he facetimes with Nolan.

He is wearing boxers and a worn Mooseheads t-shirt, teeth brushed and ready for sleep. Nolan, hours away in the Dub, is still on the bus home from an away game. Nico can see the cocoon he’s made out of a blanket, buried underneath it so he doesn’t bother his teammates with the sound of his cross-country conversation. The only light comes from the reading light shining weakly from above and the passing street lights.

“Is it bedtime already?” Nolan asks.

It’s just past midnight in Halifax, only ten wherever Nolan is, somewhere in Manitoba between Regina and Brandon. Nico has Saturday practice in the morning. “Yeah.”

“So what are you doing with the stove?” It sounds like a sincere question. There is so much sincerity when it comes to Nolan Patrick.

From the cupboard, Nico gets out the pot of honey and a shallow bowl. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Just a habit.”

“I wanna know your habits though,” Nolan says, light and teasing.

He’s playful, Nico thinks. It’s a pleasant surprise; all the reports coming out of Brandon promised a very boring, emotionally restrained, Canadian-polite first overall prospect. But away from the cameras and reporters, Nolan is animated and interesting, and best of all, _fun_.

“It’s just milk,” Nico tells him.

“Oh. So you can grow up to be a big strong boy?”

“It’s not for me.” He debates telling Nolan about the faeries; he doesn’t talk about them much in North America, where the Canadians seem to have forgotten about them, passing them into folklore and fairytales. But he suddenly wants to share, to stop hiding this secret bit of home. And he’s feeling a bit thoughtless, a bit reckless, the way he’s been with every snap and text and Skype call that he and Nolan have exchanged over the past few months. He almost doesn’t realize he’s speaking until he hears the words out of his mouth. “It's for the faeries. I have to give them milk every night.”

From the smile creeping over Nolan’s face, half-hidden in the dark, Nico already knows he thinks this is a joke. “The faeries,” Nolan says.

“There are a lot in Europe. Some in Canada, too. My mom always puts some milk out for them.”

“What, like cookies for Santa? My dad ate those when we were kids.”

Nico is pretty sure that there isn’t the always-present threat of otherworldly death when it comes to Santa Claus. “Kind of, but to show respect. They like the—I don’t know the English word. The things we put out, if they are sweet or pretty, like honey or cakes or flowers or.” He shrugs. “The faeries like them.”

“The offerings?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Nolan’s voice is still half-disbelieving, but he sounds interested. “You’re serious. You believe in faeries.”

“Well, the milk is gone in the morning.” And they leave behind flowers, always flowers.

“Oh shit, dude. You ever seen one before or…?”

“When I was five, and a few times after that. They don't like to be seen.”

“Christ, Nico.” It’s hard to see Nolan clearly under the orange light of the highway street lights, but it looks like Nolan is shaking his head. “Feel like I’m seeing a whole new side of you. Faeries.”

“For sure you think I'm crazy.”

“Nah, my parents believe the Manitoba Loch Ness Monster lives in our lake,” Nolan says. “I've never seen it, and I've never made it milk for its bedtime, but faeries aren't the craziest thing I’ve heard of. It’s just—I didn’t know this about you.”

The milk is starting to bubble. Nico turns off the stove and pours it into the bowl, reaching for the honey. He doesn’t dare look at Nolan. “Yeah, I don’t talk about it here. People will think I’m crazy, you know?”

“Hey, Hisch. Nico.” Nico looks at his phone, and Nolan is passing under another street light, the orange glow throwing wild shadows over his face. His eyes are steady on the screen, dark. “I don’t think you’re crazy, promise. I mean, I don’t know if I believe in them myself, but you do you, eh? And I just wanted to say that I’m glad you told me about this. I uh, it’s nice knowing more about you.”

The heart inside Nico’s chest is beating an uneven rhythm. He puts his hands around the bowl and lets the warmth seep through his fingers.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Nolan seems to get that, moving past it easily. “So do you have a special Swiss German word for faerie?”

“Yeah.” Nico picks up both the bowl of milk and his phone and starts the slow climb up to his room. “It's _Fee_.”

And Nolan laughs quietly at that, though Nico isn't entirely sure what he said that was so funny. But the sound makes him feel warm inside, as warm as the milk in his hands, steam gently curling in the air.

 

 

So. New Jersey. Nico has worn a Devils jersey before, once when he was nine for a tournament in Switzerland. It could be his future.

He holds a sprig of honeysuckle, rolling the stem thoughtfully between his fingers.

First overall. That isn’t something he’s really considered before, not when he was projected to go in the first round, but by no means top five. Now that he’s a consensus 1-2 pick though, things are different. He can almost dare to dream.

The flowers spin as he twirls the stem back and forth, and then he brings them to his nose and breathes in deep.

It would be him or Nolan going first.

A few months ago, Nico might’ve actually _considered_ a Blessing, even if he wouldn’t actually _do_ it in the end. Back then, Nolan was a name, a number, a 19 on a black and gold jersey holding onto a spot that Nico has been chasing all season. But now, Nolan is…

Nico drops the flowers and lifts his snapback for a second to run his hand through his hair, thinking hard.

Nolan is his friend, is a lot of things that make Nico feel like he’s flying and falling at the same time, like there’s a laugh caught in his chest every time their eyes meet and Nolan smiles at him.

It’s unthinkable now, using magic to take the chance of first from Nolan.

And besides, he’d promised himself: no more faerie wishes.

 

 

The first time that Nolan kisses him, Nico thinks this:

Kissing Nolan is more terrifying and exhilarating than scoring, than facing down a faerie and asking for a Blessing. Kissing Nolan is like—It’s like nothing else that Nico can describe, mind blanking at the feel of Nolan’s lips, his hair soft under his fingers and shorter now that they’re being groomed for the draft.

Kissing Nolan is better than CHL trophies and watching the Memorial Cup Tournament in Windsor today, seated next to each other in the stands with their thighs and their knees and their arms touching.

Kissing Nolan is the soft pressure of Nolan’s mouth and the feeling of falling.

Nico forgets about milk and honey as they stumble into their room, their shared hotel room, and he wakes with his face pressed to Nolan’s collarbone and the smell of Nolan everywhere. There is not a flower in sight.

 

“Tell me about your faeries.”

Nico does not want to talk about faeries, not in the comfort and safety of his bed with Nolan stretched out next to him, but he knows that Nolan is only trying to learn as much as he can about Nico. Nolan has asked him about everything, his likes and dislikes, his home in Naters and his family, his history. And now his faeries.

(They’re not really _his_ , Nico knows. Not in any sense of the word. The thought is kind of terrifying, actually. But Nolan is waiting patiently, eyes intent on Nico’s face, and Nico thinks he would lay claim to every monster in the world for this boy.)

“They live under the ground and they like to visit people. They like it when we give them things, like the milk at night. And…” He thinks hard, but it’s like every faerie fact that he knows has suddenly flown out of his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he says, painfully honest.

Nolan is rubbing a thumb absently over Nico’s hip, and that is distracting too.

“I just wanna know like, I don’t know. What was it like meeting one?”

“Pretty scary, to be honest.”

“Do they have these little wings like Tinkerbell? You know, tiny blonde chick with faerie dust?”

The thumb has been replaced by fingers, fitted evenly over Nico’s waist under his Combine shirt, trailing lightly over his stomach.

“No wings,” Nico says, tripping over the words a little. But English is _hard_ when he’s not focusing, and Nolan is making it hard to focus. “They have...red eyes and their teeth are very sharp and...and they can change how they look. Children see them best.”

Nolan puts his lips against Nico’s neck. Nico had never thought of Nolan Patrick as seductive in any way, but he seems to know just how to wake the butterflies in Nico’s stomach, that trembling feeling under his fingers.

He goes on, voice unsteady. “They smell like a kind of flower, really sweet like...I don’t know the word in English. In German, we call it Geissblatt.”

Nolan tries it, the German sounding not half-bad on his tongue. “What’s it mean?”

“Goat leaf.” And Nico has to laugh at the look on Nolan’s face. “I don’t know the English word.”

“Okay. So they smell like flowers. What do they do though?”

“The faeries? Um, they just drink milk. I don’t really know. Sometimes if they like you, they Bless you, but you have to pay a price.”

“What kind of price?”

“Something big. Your name. Something you really love. They can steal your memories from your head, if you tell them a story.”

“Sounds wicked.” Nolan hums quietly, nosing at Nico’s jaw, and Nico wants this conversation to be over already, wants to be talking about anything but faeries. He turns his head and tries to catch Nolan’s lips, and Nolan lets him.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says when they’ve broken apart.

“I don’t know.” Nolan grins, loose and easy. His eyes are dark and close. “I’ve never met anyone else who’s met a faerie before.”

“They’re _dangerous_ ,” Nico says.

“Yeah, I figured. Still, that’s some cool shit. I’d be up for meeting one.”

The sudden fear that seizes him is overwhelming. _No_ , Nico thinks.

He thinks that he understands his mother a little better, the fear she must have felt when she saw the faeries take an interest in him. The little parade of gifts on his windowsill after he was Blessed.

“They’re shy,” he says with difficulty, and Nolan shrugs in understanding, dipping back in for another kiss.

Nico leans into it, lets Nolan sneak a hand further up his shirt, pushing up the hem. It is a very good distraction from the conversation.

“Okay, my turn,” Nico whispers, before Nolan can continue with his questioning. “Tell me about your lake monster.”

Nolan blinks. “God, fuck. Not that.”

“You told me you have a monster in your lake, right?”

It is still amazing to watch Nolan’s face flush a deeper red, no matter how many times Nico has seen it. “C’mon, you really don’t wanna know my parents’ conspiracy theories about the Manipogo. They’re so embarrassing.”

But Nico does. He wants to know everything about Nolan, and he can already see Nolan giving in.

 

“If you could not play for your own country, what country would you play for? Nolan Patrick.”

“I’d go Switzerland for sure. Nico has shown me a lot of pictures of it down there and it looks like a great place to play, so I pick there.”

It almost hurts to smile so hard. Nico brings the mic to his lips, says a pleased, “Good choice,” and Nolan’s eyes when he looks at him are the softest thing in the world.

It is easy to say Canada when it’s his turn, to choose Canada and the dark sweep of Nolan’s lashes lowering when he hears Nico’s answer, the little smile playing at the corner of his lips.

When Gabe and Casey are done speaking and the cameras are done rolling, Nico leans close to Nolan, heads bent together.

“You really want to come to Switzerland?” he asks, low and so, so hopeful.

Nolan brings up a hand, shielding the bottom half of his face, and he mouths _faeries_ at Nico. It’s a joke, a deflection that means more than what Nolan is saying. There are a million emotions reflected in Nolan’s eyes that Nolan can’t say. Nolan would not come to Switzerland for the faeries. But Nico’s heart dips anyway, in equal parts fear and joy.

 

It is easy to steal into Nolan’s hotel room in Chicago, to slip through the hall and into the warmth of his bed.

Nolan smells like fresh grass, and there are three flowers tattooed on his arm. Nico traces them in the dark, feeling the muscles of Nolan’s bicep underneath his fingers. He can’t see or feel the flowers, but he knows they’re there, just like he knows Nolan’s smile is there. He can hear it in Nolan’s voice when Nolan says, “Having fun?”

“I like your flowers,” Nico says, and he lays his head back on Nolan’s pillow and lets his fingers rest on Nolan’s arm.

“They’re for my family,” Nolan says quietly. “One for my mom, one for my sister Aimee, and one for my sister Madison. You’ll meet them tomorrow, before the draft.” His voice goes softer, really soft. “I really want you to meet them.”

“Me too,” Nico says, and he means more than just Nolan’s family, thinking of his own family flown in from Naters.

He lays curled around Nolan, tracing the invisible lines of his tattoo and thinking about the sickeningly sweet smell of honeysuckle. He is glad that Nolan’s flowers do not smell at all.

 

 

Nolan does not tell Nico when he is injured. Nolan never tells Nico when he is injured.

“I don’t want you to worry,” Nolan says, guilty, and Nico feels far away and helpless and _stuck_ in New Jersey.

He loves it in Newark, loves the Devils jersey he wears, but he feels the restless need clawing in him now, the need to get on the Turnpike and drive the hour and a half to Philadelphia and see Nolan, touch him, to really know that he is okay.

The _face infection_ during prospect camp is bad enough, and then the concussion.

And then the concussion, and Nico knows that this is not Nolan’s first or second or third head injury, not after the year he had last season in Brandon. Not after the two sports hernias and the complications that came with them, missing World Juniors and the playoffs.

“I don’t want you to worry,” Nolan whispers into the phone, and Nico can picture him in a dark room, resting his head, dizzy and hurting.

It is only the start of the season.

 

When the Devils host the Flyers in December, Nolan is out with his second concussion of the season. Really bad luck, everyone says. History of injuries. Have to wonder how it affects him, especially since he’s been unable to find his footing in Philly yet.

Nico scores a goal and gets an assist, and the Devils win 4-2.

Nolan kisses him after the game, softly, carefully, crisp in his suit without a hair out of place after a night in the press box.

 

It is hard to find a faerie in New Jersey. But Nico takes a train to the Appalachian Mountains and goes on a day hike, feeling his way along the side of the mountain until he finds what he is looking for: a fast-running stream, clear water and mossy rocks and a ring of pale white mushrooms a small distance away.

There are wild shrubs of honeysuckle growing on the grass around the ring, flowering and untouched by the late December frost. Nico makes sure to avoid stepping on them as he sets a smooth stone, a spray of tiger lilies, and a square of butter inside the ring.

When he comes back at sundown, the gifts are gone, and there is someone sitting in the ring.

The faerie is much smaller than him, but its eyes are bright and piercing as it listens to him speak. It looks different than he remembered them looking, less otherworldly; even with his unshakeable belief, Nico is growing up, and he no longer has a child’s eyes.

Then the faerie tilts its head just enough to catch the light of the setting sun, and its eyes flash blood-red for a second.

There is not a lot that Nico can say that will interest a faerie, who care little for the heartaches of humanity, but he has to try. He has thought about this for sleepless nights, cool wintry air and the smell of summer flowers in his bedroom and an ache in his heart.

“You set out offerings every night,” the faerie says when he is done.

Nico nods.

“It has been a long time since anyone has offered me milk and honey,” the faerie says, almost thoughtfully.

Nico is afraid to breathe. His heart is pounding in his chest.

“Can you—” he starts, and then he remembers the rules. Never ask a faerie. Never put yourself in debt to a faerie. Never tell a faerie your name. Never tell a faerie your story.

“You’ve been Blessed once before,” the faerie says. “The price was high, then. It is higher now.”

He knows this. But Nico is out of gifts. Nico has nothing left to give, no flowers or seeds or milk, no offerings worthy of what he wants with faerie magic. Nico has nothing at all to offer in payment. Nothing except—

“I met the love of my life on a Wednesday,” he says.

 

 

Nolan Patrick texts Nico an awful lot. Nico always answers, curious about the other boy, who seems friendly and interested and eager to snap or facetime after games. They are probably considered friends now, though Nico doesn’t remember getting along so well with him before the draft.

He gets updates on Nolan Patrick’s unexpectedly quick recovery from his latest concussion, and Nico is pleasantly happy for him.

There are odd moments sometimes, moments when Patrick asks him out of the blue if he’s mad at him, or if something’s wrong. There isn’t, and Nico isn’t. He is not entirely sure why Patrick sounds so upset about that.

Nolan Patrick stops texting him so much.

 

The Flyers host the Devils in January, and Nico is excited for their second game, but mostly because he has never played in Philadelphia. It will be another divisional rivalry, their second game in the Devils’ four-game season series against the Flyers.

He feels eyes on him, the back of his neck prickling. There is a small crowd in front of the glass, children pressed up against it as they watch the Devils warm up on their side of the ice. There are larger crowds higher up in the stands, finding their seats. Nico is used to being watched. Still, he feels an extra awareness, like a set of faerie eyes on him, and he looks up.

Nolan Patrick is standing on the blue line, beckoning.

Nico hesitates. He has his warm-up routine to get to, and Nolan Patrick is not a part of that routine.

Patrick stares at him from across the ice, a wrinkle in his brow, and Nico stares back.

There is something tugging at him, pushing him to cross the ice and meet Nolan Patrick at the blue line, but he stays in his own zone.

Patrick beckons again, more insistent this time, and he’s drawing the attention of some of Nico’s teammates.

“Patrick’s calling you,” Will says, and Nico wavers for another second. “Aren’t you guys friends? I think he wants to talk to you about something. He looks pretty pressed, dude.”

“Old buddy from the draft?” Jesper asks, teasing.

“I think so,” Nico says.

“Nico,” Patrick calls, and his voice is audible over the sound of the crowd, the warm-up music blasting over the speakers. He sounds confused and hurt and slightly scared and Nico doesn’t—he doesn’t understand _why_. Something inside him hurts, a throbbing kind of ache in his chest and in his head, and he worries for a second if he’ll be okay for the game.

It feels like there is an ocean between them, a sea between Nico in the circle and Patrick at the blue line. It seems to take a long time to close that distance, Nico skating over slowly while Patrick watches him.

“I needed to see you,” Nolan Patrick says, low and urgent, and Nico is taken aback by the barely-controlled emotion in his voice.

Everything about Nolan Patrick seems very monotone. Everything except this.

“I don’t...Sorry, I don’t think we…”

“It’s been a whole month. Did I do something to piss you off? Yeah, I know it’s been a bit quiet on my end, but the trainers didn’t want me using my phone too much while I was recovering, and I was kinda pissed at everything.”

Patrick is talking fast, too fast, and Nico can only listen.

“So, I’m sorry if I shut you out earlier. But I’ve been better for weeks now, and I don’t know. Are you still mad at me?” Patrick has his glove off, and he makes a move like he’s about to touch Nico’s face before stopping himself, looking quickly around the packed arena once. “Nico?”

“I’m don’t know what’s going on,” Nico says. He really doesn’t.

“I just wanted to know if like, we’re still cool?”

Of course they are. Why would Nico not be cool with Nolan Patrick? He seems like a nice guy, and Nico likes making friends. He opens his mouth, searching for the right words in English—

“Cause sometimes when we’re talking it feels like you don’t want us to be...you know,” one more glance around, at the players around them, and Nolan Patrick lowers his voice, “what we are.”

“We’re not anything,” Nico says, bewildered.

Nolan Patrick jerks back, eyes wide and lips parting, and his face is a canvas of emotion before he shuts it down quickly. The glove goes back on, stick in hand, head lowered so all Nico can see is the top of his black helmet and the visor and the bridge of his red nose.

“Right,” Patrick says. “Okay. You could’ve fucking told me that earlier.” There is a sharp note of anger in his voice, but then he softens. “Okay, fine, that’s...that’s fine. So, see you around I guess. Um, good game.”

He turns quickly and skates away, all the way to the Flyers goal line on the other side of the ice, and Nico watches him go.

 

They get back to Newark that night, right after the final buzzer.

Hallsy is setting up his blanket on the bus, looking ready for his usual nap, though Nico is never sure how he can sleep while his body is still cooling down from the game. Maybe it’s a vet thing. Maybe it’s a Taylor Hall closing himself off from the world thing.

He takes a seat next to Hallsy and pulls out his headphones.

“Everything good with Patrick?” Hallsy asks suddenly, unexpectedly.

Nico lowers his headphones. Hallsy’s eyes are bright and knowing, and of course he knew there was something wrong during warm-ups. There is not a lot that Taylor Hall misses, not when it comes to his rookie linemates.

“Yeah, I think so,” Nico says slowly. And then, “Actually, I don’t know.”

“Long-distance sucks,” Hallsy agrees. “Look, I don’t know if you want my advice or not, but hold on as hard as you fucking can, kid. Never know when shit’s gonna hit the fan.” He looks very serious suddenly. “So just, unless it’s really bad, figure stuff out with your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend?”

“That’s what you and Patrick are, aren’t you? I know you’re keeping it a secret, but.” He shrugs.

Nico thinks he blacks out again, like he did at the draft. He says something, words in English or German or French, he isn’t sure. They must be English, because when he comes back to himself, Hallsy is saying, “Good luck with that.”

And then he shuts his eyes, which means that the conversation is over.

As Nico is fitting his headphones over his head, Hallsy adds quietly, “And I’m glad you’re here, Nico. Next to me, I mean. Right now.”

His eyes are still closed, face turned toward the window. But Nico knows what Hallsy means, knows the empty seat next to Hallsy that used to belong Rico, until Rico was traded to Anaheim, and then belonged no one. Kind of like Hallsy’s heart.

“Boyfriends, eh?” Hallsy mutters under his breath.

Nico pats Hallsy’s blanket-covered thigh.

When he’s sure that there are no more words to come, he pulls his beanie down to cover his eyes and leans back into his seat, letting the music wash everything else away.

 

When Nico gets back to his room, he immediately sees the honeysuckle on his windowsill, green leaves and golden-white flowers and the sweet smell so strong that he feels dizzy and a bit sick. He had not cleaned up the remains of his last offering before getting on the bus to Philly. On his dresser, days-old flowers droop in various stages of decay, some fresh and colorful and some nearly dead and ready to be thrown out.

His computer is on his desk, and he turns it on instead of getting ready for bed.

Hallsy said that Nolan Patrick is his boyfriend.

Nico had gone through his instagram and twitter and camera roll on the bus, finding nothing, and now he goes through everything on his computer. There are dozens of pictures of him with family and friends and teammates, memories of his time in Visp and Bern and Halifax sorted into neat folders.

And then he finds it: buried in three other empty folders, a single folder labeled ‘N.’

His breath freezes in his throat.

Nico stares at the pictures on his computer, the him that is not really him, can’t be him, because he doesn’t _remember_ any of this.

He would remember these moments. He would remember living these dozens of private selfies, Nolan’s arms around him and Nolan’s mouth pressed to his hair and Nolan’s cheeks flushed pink. He would remember the way Nolan looks at him in the pictures, impossibly soft.

He closes his eyes, trying to think, and chokes on the scent of honeysuckle.

Nico is missing memories, and there is only one way he knows how.

And he is—He can’t explain why, but he’s angry all of a sudden, furious at nothing, and there are those flowers everywhere in his room, overpowering with their sweet smell. Nico grabs a handful and throws them in the trash. He sweeps all the honeysuckle in his room into the trash, opens the nightstand and pulls out the flower crown from his eighteenth birthday and crushes the dried flowers in his fist. They crumble through his fingers and onto the floor, brown and broken petals.

And then the anger leaves him, and he’s left with a hollow feeling in his chest, something that feels like longing.

He briefly wonders if he’s going to get struck down by a faerie, if he’s offended them by destroying their gifts. He almost doesn’t care.

The trash goes outside, even though it is late and Nico hates taking out the trash and he’s not wearing enough for a freezing January night in New Jersey. The cold air is wintery sharp though, clearing his head of the smell of flowers.

He brushes his hair out of his face and takes a deep breath.

 

“I don’t remember you,” Nico says quietly.

“Oh,” Nolan says. On the screen, his face is all shadows.

“I think—I think I did something and now I can’t remember. But we were—” Nico says.

“Yeah,” Nolan says. “We were.”

 

There are honeysuckle blooms on his window in the morning. Nico puts them with the others in the large vase that sits on his dresser, and he takes the empty mug into the kitchen.

 

“You started acting weird last month, right around mid-December. I thought it was probably cause I’ve been kinda distant, after the second concussion. I thought for sure you were pissed at me for that.”

Nico sits cross-legged on Nolan’s bed and fingers the hem of his jeans, keeping his eyes on a fraying patch in his sock that threatens to become a hole. He swallows.

Nolan gets off his chair and comes to sit next to him, ducking his head so he can peer up into Nico’s face. His eyes are soft again.

“I wasn’t mad,” Nico says finally. “I don’t think I was mad.”

“Oh. Okay, good.” And Nico hadn’t noticed how tense Nolan was until some of that tension goes out of him.

“I didn’t remember that we’re, that we were dating.” He feels embarrassed now. What kind of idiot forgets his own boyfriend? An idiot who must have traded those memories, of course.

“Yeah, you said. Gonna be honest, Nico, I really didn’t expect that bit. Like, I thought maybe you weren’t feeling us anymore, but I didn’t think you’d completely _forget_ we were a thing.”

He has no idea how to even begin to explain the faeries, the Blessing, everything.

The light touch of Nolan’s knee to his startles him, but it’s grounding at the same time. He can feel Nolan searching his face, though he avoids the other boy’s eyes. Nolan sighs a little. “Can’t believe you forgot me,” he says again, mostly to himself.

“I didn’t _want_ to,” Nico says. But he _chose_ to, for something. He must have.

“I know. You told me once that faeries can steal your memories if you tell them a story.”

Nico’s head shoots up. He hadn’t expected Nolan to guess where his mind is. Just how much _did_ he tell this boy?

Nolan must read the look on his face. “Look, I didn’t really believe in faeries when you told me about them. I thought it was bullshit, but you believed it, and I love you, so I figured what the fuck, right? It’s not like you having superstitions is a deal-breaker.”

He’s speaking so fast that Nico barely has time to react to hearing _I love you_. In a way, Nico is glad for this.

“Then when we hosted you and we talked on the ice, there was something. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time, but you smelled different. Really sweet, like some kind of flower.”

He gets up and goes to his desk, coming back with a leafy vine. There are a few white flowers clinging to it.

“Don’t laugh at me, but I googled what kind of flowers are associated with faeries, and then I went to a florist here and I asked if I could smell those flowers.” Nolan makes a face. “They must’ve thought I was weird, but they let me, and here. It’s this one.” He places the stem in Nico’s lap.

Nico doesn’t need to pick it up or smell the flowers to know; he knows these by sight. “Geissblatt.”

“Honeysuckle,” Nolan says, translating. “That’s the English word for them. A lot of stories say that faeries love them.”

Nico touches the delicate flowers, feeling the sudden urge to crush these, too. He doesn’t.

“I was Blessed before. I don’t know if I told you that.” He smooths out the curling petals where they’re a little crushed, releasing the sweet, distinctive smell. “When I was 12. I wanted to focus on hockey, so I looked for a faerie, and it Blessed me.”

“You did it again, didn’t you? It was just a crazy idea at first, but when we facetimed, you said you didn’t remember we were dating. And before, you were always talking about how faeries can steal your memories, and then you went and forgot about me right around when my concussion cleared up. And I haven’t had another injury since then. Not even a puck to the face during practice.”

Nico blinks at him. Nolan Patrick is smarter than anyone gives him credit for.

“I remember I wanted someone I love to stop hurting,” he says. “I didn’t remember who.”

“Fuck, Nico.”

Fuck indeed. Nico stares at the scant space between them, Nolan’s face unhappy. He has no idea what his own face is doing.

“You really did that for me?” Nolan asks. “You fucking—” He runs a hand through his hair, which is getting long again, like it was in Brandon. Nico remembers that much. Or he means, he has pictures.

“I think I really, really loved you,” Nico says.

“Jesus, fuck. I know. I love you too. But that’s not—You don’t remember that.”

Nico shakes his head.

Nolan puts his face in his hands, and Nico is afraid that he is crying. But his eyes are dry when he looks up. “Okay,” Nolan Patrick says, calm, composed. There is barely a wobble in his voice. “That’s shitty. This is probably the weirdest way anyone’s broken up with me.” He takes a few breaths before meeting Nico’s anxious eyes. “But we can at least be friends, right?”

“For sure,” Nico says, because it feels right.

 

 

Things are a little weird, with Nolan. Nico finds that he sometimes tells him things, only for Nolan to tell him that he already told him before. Sometimes, Nolan forgets himself and makes a joke that Nico doesn’t understand, and then he gets quiet and kind of sad.

Despite this, Nico feels more and more every day like he knows Nolan, almost like he remembers the stolen nights and flirty text messages, the hours of conversation in Halifax and Brandon and Newark and Philly that Nolan tells him all about. He gets the strongest feeling of deja vu when he facetimes Nolan, like he’s been here before.

Of course he’s been here before.

Milk and honey and the dizzying smell of honeysuckle, and the sound of Nolan’s voice, low and a little flat and a little husky when he says Nico’s name. Nico has always been here before.

 

There is another flower tattooed on Nolan’s arm when Nico sees him next. It is during a postgame in the Flyers locker room in mid-March, Nolan sweaty and flushed and wearing just an Underarmor shirt, and Nico sees the flower from 90 miles away in his room in New Jersey.

It is on Nolan’s right bicep, opposite the three flowers he has on his left. It is a different kind of flower too, a vine with long, thin petals and clusters of flowers. They are colorless, but Nico knows that they would be golden-white in the summer, smelling sweet.

He knows enough about Nolan by now to know who they are for.

 

There is a snap waiting on his phone when he wakes up, and he watches it while in bed, eyes only half-open. In the snap, Nolan is grinning, already dressed in his bedroom in Philly before heading to practice. He is using the dog filter, tongue out. He looks very cute like that.

Nico screenshots it as usual and swipes through the filters, settling on the flower crown, which will hide his messy bedhead.

And then he sends the snap and gets up and reaches for the flowers on his windowsill.

 

 

Nico met the love of his life on a Wednesday. He doesn’t remember that.

It was raining in Toronto, and Nolan Patrick had thought he was cool and closed off, dark eyes and dimples and beautiful in his red Swiss Hockey shirt. “Very European,” Nolan laughs, though Nico isn’t sure what he means by that.

“I watched you almost beat us in the pre-tournament,” Nolan says, which Nico remembers. “And then you almost beat us again during the top-prospects game,” he says, which Nico does not.

He is used to these holes in his memory. It feels like they are barely there, filled in with Nolan’s words and Nolan’s smiles and the soft pink of Nolan’s lips, which Nico can’t stop thinking about. Some things are inevitable, he thinks, stronger and longer-lasting than even faerie magic.

When Nico kisses him for the first time that he remembers, Nolan brings his hands up, one on Nico's jaw and one on his hip, fingers resting on the skin under his Devils shirt.

Nico thinks that kissing Nolan must be the most thrilling thing he’s ever done, heart pounding harder than it ever did when he scored in a major tournament or stared into a faerie’s inhuman eyes. He feels the soft pressure of Nolan’s mouth, and then he feels weightless, nothing but the rush of falling.

Some things are inevitable, Nico thinks, standing there with a fistful of Nolan’s shirt and the scent of grass in the rain, clean and fresh and smelling not at all like flowers, his hand on Nolan’s bicep and covering the cluster of honeysuckle tattooed there. Some things are really inevitable, because how could there be a world where he doesn’t fall in love with Nolan Patrick?

Every new beginning would lead to this, he knows, because this is the only possible ending.

Nolan is smiling when Nico pulls back, a laugh in his eyes and a full-blown blush on his cheeks. “Hey again,” he says.

Nico threads their fingers together and leans in, again.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warning: one of the characters loses some of his memories. No one takes advantage of him due to his memory loss, but if memory loss (due to magic) is something you're uncomfortable with, this might not be the fic for you
> 
> A lot of faerie lore in this fic is kind of hand-wavey, and I made up most of it. The bits that are real are based on Irish and Scottish folklore, though the concept of faeries—sometimes goblins, sometimes gods—does exist in most cultures around the world
> 
> [short outtakes](https://jveleno.tumblr.com/post/177964380559/nico-has-such-a-soft-voice-and-his-accent-is-so)


End file.
